


All I Want For Christmas

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All types of Christmas things happening in this story, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Unilock, White Christmas, home for the holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking Sherlock's platonic university flatmate home with him for Christmas can be a tricky business. Especially when he wishes their relationship wasn't platonic at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HighTimesWithHiddles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighTimesWithHiddles/gifts).



> This is dedicated to the lovely HighTimesWithHiddles! This story wasn't so much a request as it was born from a very intense discussion we were having about Christmas ;) Thank you for all the inspiration, darling! This one is for you!

"So this is the Holmes' Christmas Cottage, then?"

Glancing up toward the building looming in front of them and fighting the effort not to grin or, god forbid,  _run_  toward the front door, Sherlock Holmes huffs a sigh of annoyance and shoots a glare at his university flatmate and current travel companion in one last feeble attempt to seem completely indifferent to this entire trip. He's probably failing miserably seeing as the butterflies in his stomach are currently soaring around his insides at the very sight of the house standing before him, but the solid effort is necessary. "It's just a cottage," he grumbles much less harshly than he'd meant to, "it's our winter home."

"Of course it is," John Watson wisely as though deeply understanding, lips twitching in that way they do when he's trying not to laugh. "Who doesn't have a winter home?"

"You, probably," Sherlock fires back, fighting a grin of his own, the elation of finally being back here, being  _home_  taking over his entire being, making every nerve-ending in his body tingle with a happy warmth he didn't realize he'd been missing. He loves it out here in the country. He loves this little town. He loves this house. But most of all, he loves the people who are currently _occupying_ this house. This cottage wouldn't mean much at all without those people, anyway.

"Yes,  _thank you_  for pointing that out," John laughs. "So, who all is here?"

By way of answering, Sherlock doesn't and instead makes his way up the snow-covered footpath to the front door, insides squirming with anticipation of what awaits him on the other side, the heat of the house practically radiating off the heavy grey stones that make up the exterior, tiny white lights dangling off along the triangle topped front, simple yet elegant as always, framed in white by recently fallen snow laying evenly along the rooftop and on the ground surrounding the house. He hasn't been here in a  _year_. One long year away from one of his favorite places on earth and now, standing only meters away from it, he finds he can't wait a second longer and races toward the door that's already covered in bows of holly like he knew it would be, glittering greens and reds and golds in that beautifully familiar way.

"Don't worry," John grumbles from behind him, still standing at the boot of the cab, "I'll get the bags."

"I know," Sherlock calls back with a smirk, trying not to grin too terribly hard at the fact that  _John bloody Watson_  is currently standing in front of his family's winter cottage, grabbing _their_  luggage for  _their_  trip home because John is _spending_   _Christmas_  with Sherlock's family, a scheme Sherlock has been working on for a solid month, not the least bit ashamed to admit to himself how proud he is for this accomplishment. "Come on!" he calls, finding the effort to continue seeming unaffected and aloof becoming more and more difficult as he nears the house.

"Jesus, what the hell did you  _pack_?" John gripes but his footsteps are getting closer and Sherlock takes one steady breath, grins down at his feet for a solid beat before pushing down on the handle of the door and tossing it open with barely contained excitement.

And just like that, he's  _home_.

Warmth pools from inside the house out onto the front porch and the sight before his eyes is almost exactly how the photograph in his mind looks, though he's certain his photographic memory could never ever do justice to actually  _being_  in the Holmes' winter cottage at Christmastime.

The entry hallway is draped in garland wrapped in twinkling lights, those familiar red bells placed at the center of each dip just like Sherlock knew they would be, gold tinsel strands complimenting the doorways around the edges as he makes his way in. He smiles up at his surroundings, taking in every decoration his mother had obviously strategically put up, swathing every wall, every piece of furniture, every doorway in nothing but holiday décor, every pillow holding some sort of wintry icon, every blanket covered in snowflakes or reindeer. All perfectly laid and thoughtfully organized with a hint of chaos where his mother obviously couldn't help herself, adding too many lights in one area, too much tinsel in another.

It's completely perfect.

The only thing that could beat the sight, however, is the  _smell_. Wafting through the house and filling every single room, every little bit of space, a scent that can only be described as  _heavenly_ , the aroma of Mrs. Holmes' famous hot buttered rum mixed with the undertones of the fire surely crackling away in the sitting room making Sherlock's eyes flutter a bit with the familiarity of it all. The spicy scent of nutmeg and cinnamon swirl themselves in and the youngest Holmes can practically  _see_ the cookie-cutters no doubt lining the kitchen island, ready to be put to use as his mother finishes kneading the dough, prepping it to be shaped into pine trees and snowmen and ornaments. He's practically giddy with anticipation as he peers down the hallway, catching just a small glimpse of the kitchen at the end of it.

"What's cooking?" John is suddenly in the open doorway and Sherlock turns just in time to see him drop their bags unceremoniously beneath the coat rack and stomp his snow-covered shoes on the welcome mat before stepping inside, "It smells delicious. I got the – woah!" Eyes widening at the sight before him, John's mouth drops open. "That's… that's quite a lot of decorations. Did Father Christmas throw up in here?"

A flash of hurt stabs Sherlock's insides, feeling more disappointed than he'd anticipated that John didn't share his love for over-the-top Christmas décor that's tradition in his family. "Yeah," he murmurs, ducking his head to hide his embarrassment, "My mother likes to over do it."

"Oh, I actually like it," John continues, closing the door neatly and shrugging his jacket off. "Makes it actually feel like Christmas. The school hardly put in an effort to post a Happy Holidays sign anywhere on campus, I've barely felt the spirit at all this year." He glances around, a look of wonder and contentment mixing in his features. "Yeah," he sighs in what could only be satisfaction, "it definitely feels like Christmas in here."

Stomach leaping with excitement as John agrees with his internal sentiment that it doesn't feel like Christmas until all the decorations are out and up, Sherlock's eyes rake back up to find John's.

Those beautiful blue eyes of his roommate's twinkle back at him as a grin spreads across his face and Sherlock's heart suddenly does a somersault in his chest at exactly what is happening right now.

John Watson is here in his family's winter cottage. John Watson is here with him for Christmas. John Watson is  _here_.

It's Sherlock Holmes' favorite time of the year and he gets to be with all of his favorite people. How had he gotten so lucky?

Digging his hands into his pockets and dropping eye contact in favor of glancing around the rest of the immediate area, John looks positively enchanted. "It is gorgeous in here," he murmurs softly, lips parting in awe of every detail Sherlock is certain his mother put hours of effort into. "I mean this place is huge but it also feels so… cozy. It's nice."

Cozy.

Christ, how many times had Sherlock thought that exact same thing about  _John_?

John is the epitome of coziness. He's warmth and safety and cups of tea and crap telly. He's funny and kind and silently strong, always up for a laugh but never at anyone's expense. He's easy-going but quietly fierce, always carefully watching his surroundings, always aware without being noticeable.

He also plays rugby for the university, divides his time between the gym and the field when he's not home where Sherlock prefers him to be, fit as hell, strong as an ox and  _devastatingly_ handsome, all blonde hair and blue eyes and brilliant, beautiful smiles.

He's  _perfect_.

And Sherlock is suddenly trying to remember why he thought bringing John Watson here was such a brilliant idea. Because seeing him now, just inside the doorway of his beloved family home, surrounding by the familiar trimmings that had been a part of his Christmas since he was a boy, it feels much different than a flatmate meeting another flatmate's family. It feels much more intimate. More formal. Like their relationship is something else entirely besides flat sharers and friends.

And within the span of a single breath, Sherlock has no bloody idea why he thought this was such a magnificent plan in the first place.

It's not brilliant at all.

In fact, it may be the single worst idea Sherlock has ever had.

Both in their third years at university, Sherlock has been living with John in a nice flat on Baker Street in the heart of London for nearly five months now and in those five months John has somehow inserted himself into every aspect of Sherlock's life. He has no idea when that happened or how it happened but John Watson simply seems to be a part of him now; his flatmate, his study buddy, the person he eats takeaway with every weekend, the friend he attends social events with. He's the person Sherlock has found himself confiding in,  _wanting_  to confide in, wanting John to confide in  _him_ , needing to know every detail about John Watson. John occupies the room above Sherlock's and yet his presence is everywhere in their flat, all over the kitchen and sitting room and the loo. But not in an irritating way. In a nice, comforting way. Like it wouldn't be home without John in it.

John is his best friend through and through.

Which is what makes being in love with him so goddamn  _complicated_.

Sherlock should have kept his distance, which sounds terribly silly considering they live in the same flat for christssake, but now that he thinks back on it, he should have. He should have made hard and fast rules about space, he should have spent more time away in the labs or libraries, he should have been more obnoxious with late night concerts on his violin and more liberal with disgusting experiments.

He should have made the place completely uninhabitable, should have forced John out the moment the boy dropped his bags at the bottom of the second flight of stairs and stuck out his hand to introduce himself as Sherlock's new flatmate, the one his landlady Mrs. Hudson had gone and found for him because she just 'couldn't bear to see him holed up there all alone for an entire school year.'

He should have, he should have, he  _should have_.

But he didn't, now did he?

He didn't do anything the intelligent side of his brain should have been able to force him to do because John Watson's beautiful blue eyes continuously found his cloudy grey ones, and John Watson's wonderful tenor voice called him brilliant more times than he could count and John Watson's short but powerful body was constantly in a chair at the kitchen table or in the sitting room, ever present, ever noticeable, ever taunting Sherlock's goddamn  _sanity_.

If he's  _really_  honest with himself and not in a fit of self-hatred for all the things he  _should have done_ , the intelligent, logical side of his brain never had a fighting chance. The minute John Watson entered 221B, it was game over.

From day one Sherlock has wanted John. Good god does he  _want_.

He's wanted for months on end now on an endless loop of  _where's John, find John, found John, John is gorgeous, John made tea, John made tea for me, John smiled at me, John thinks I'm a genius, John is stunning, John is perfect, John John John._

It's  _exhausting_.

Especially considering the sentiment Sherlock feels continuously is undeniably unrequited. For one, John is straight. Very  _very_ straight. That fact was proven in month two of living together when John went out on two dates with Amy Morton and one with Julie Davies, both fizzling quickly,  _thank god_ , and no other romantic interests have entered the picture since, also  _thank god_ , but the fact that they were both female did not escape the notice of one Sherlock Holmes.

And in his better hours of the day he can convince himself that that is the only reason John doesn't feel anything romantic toward Sherlock. He can pretend it's because John simply doesn't like boys and not because he just doesn't like Sherlock.

And now, staring at that blond boy currently framed in lights lining the doorway, Sherlock realizes what a spectacular miscalculation he's made, what implications he's forced on his poor, unassuming flatmate by bringing him here, throwing him into this mind field of a situation, bringing him home to meet  _mummy and daddy_  for godsake. Sherlock couldn't be more bloody obvious if he'd worn a bright green t-shirt that read  _I Wish You Were My Boyfriend_  in glittery red letters - in Christmas colors for obvious reasons.

And John Watson has the audacity to fucking _smile_  at him right now, a simple lift of each corner of his mouth, brows raised kindly as though he's pleased as punch to be in the Holmes household for Christmas, blissfully unaware of exactly what's going on here. Unaware of exactly how Sherlock  _feels._

It twists something up in Sherlock's gut, tearing him in two between being grateful for his flatmate's ignorance of the situation and desperately wishing it wasn't this big awful secret, that it was okay for him to feel this way, that he wasn't alone in this miserable swirl of emotion, that maybe, just  _maybe_ , John returned the sentiment.

"Sherlock? Is that you?"

Shaken free from his inner-turmoil with four words, Sherlock jumps slightly at the sound of his mother's voice floating down the hallway from the kitchen, breaking the spell of his swirling thoughts and his shoulders finally relax. No time for a meltdown now. It's  _Christmas_.

Eyes darting around him toward the sounds of bodies shuffling around the kitchen, John grins. "Well?" he says, glancing back to Sherlock with a raised brow, "Shall we?"

And this is exactly why it's so goddamn easy to fall in love with John Watson. Because being around John is so  _easy_. Even as Sherlock's chest is seizing with panic that his deepest secret could be revealed with the insinuation of this trip, he still finds himself oddly calmed, his insides soothed by his flatmate's ease.

Nodding gently, Sherlock turns back to start his way toward the kitchen and hide the grin threatening to take over his face, mind refocusing on why he's here and who he's about to see. He scrubs a hand through his dark curly hair in an effort to soothe his rattled thoughts and struts purposefully down the hallway, attempting to not focus on the footsteps following close behind him.

And just as he's about to step through the entryway to the kitchen, a short body is stepping out, arms flying to either side of him and his mother is yanking him into a snug embrace with a little cheer of excitement. "Sherlock, darling!" she cries, enveloping him in one of her famously tight, loving hugs and kissing his cheek. "Happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas, Mummy," Sherlock can't help but chuckle, his heart all but bursting in his chest at the sight of his happy mother, who pulls back with something like tears shining in her eyes. Rolling his own fondly, Sherlock grins and says good-naturedly, "Seriously? Tears?"

"Sorry, sorry," his mother flaps her hands in front of her face, blinking rapidly to keep the droplets from falling. "Give your dear old mother a break, I haven't seen you in  _months_."

"That's because I've been attending  _school_ ," Sherlock teases back, screwing his face up into mock seriousness as he says, "I've been busy studying  _ever_  so hard."

The resounding laugh of his mother is joined by a snort and a sarcastic  _yeah right_  from behind him and Sherlock turns to shoot a playful glare at his flatmate, only to find the blond boy shaking his head with a smile as though the idea of Sherlock studying is completely ridiculous.

Which of course it is.

It's also why his mother is laughing.

"Oh! You must be the famous John Watson!" Mrs. Holmes scurries by her youngest son and hurries over to press kisses to each of John's cheeks before wrapping him up in her arms with all the sincerity she always carries. Floundering momentarily at the affection, John only pauses a second before returning the hug in full force, blue eyes closing at the contact of a mother holding him.

And every bit of anxiety still hovering over Sherlock's subconscious dissipates completely.

Because this? This right here is why he'd brought John home. Of course he'd wanted to be with John on Christmas Day and he'd wanted John to see his family's house and of course he hadn't wanted to be away from John for all of winter break.

But this, this moment right now, this is why Sherlock had made it his mission to get John here for Christmas.

Because John Watson has nowhere else to go.

Sherlock doesn't know the entirety of the story but he's picked up most of it by now and the bottom line is: John has no family. He's never met his father, his mother died when he was a teenager and his older sister stuck around just long enough to get him into university before splitting. Being on his own for the past three years, John has clearly made it work for himself, taking on part-time jobs and still getting top marks in his classes while simultaneously being a star on the rugby team. He's fantastic, really. A complete marvel. He surprises Sherlock on a regular basis at how strong and independent and utterly wonderful he is.

Of course, the blond boy has told Sherlock none of this. He'd simply mumbled something about staying in town for Christmas and meeting up with friends when Sherlock had inquired about what he'd be doing for the holiday break. Friends who, Sherlock knew, would be going home for Christmas and definitely not staying in town. And leaving John alone was simply not an option Sherlock was willing to consider. Especially considering the fact that it was highly probable that John had spent the last two Christmases alone. Because John has no one.

So Sherlock will be John's someone. And the Holmes family will be John's people. So what if it's difficult for Sherlock to see his flatmate become a part of the family in no further capacity than a friend? So what if it makes it a little harder to breathe for the curly-haired boy, knowing this wonderful person will never be anything more than his friend? So what? He can deal with it. John  _needs_  this.

And Sherlock Holmes will do  _anything_  for John Watson.

"Sherlock, my boy!" Mr. Holmes' booming voice breaks the moment and Sherlock turns with a grin up to his father, accepting his kisses and another familiar hug. "My word, have you grown? You look bigger!"

"Nope, same size," Sherlock laughs with a shrug.

"Oh please, he looks the exact same as the last time we saw him," Mycroft Holmes' all-too-familiar voice croons annoyingly from the table at the other side of the kitchen and Sherlock turns a real glare on his older brother, retort prepped and ready on his tongue, almost forgetting that his overbearing sibling was going to be here in all the excitement of bringing John home.

His cunning response, however, promptly dies in his throat, the color in his face draining along with it as all of his panic from earlier comes roaring back in full force, shaking its head at Sherlock's complete and utter stupidity.

Greg Lestrade sits perched in the chair beside Mycroft's, their hands laced neatly between them, Mycroft regarding Sherlock with nothing short of amusement while Greg, idiot that he is, flashes a bright smile in Holmes the younger's direction. "Hi Sherlock," he waves happily, giving Mycroft's hand a little jostle, "I'm so glad we could all spend Christmas together."

"What are  _you_ doing here?" Sherlock snaps at his brother's long-term boyfriend - who has, up to this point, _never_  spent a holiday with their family - hoping the terror in his voice is only obvious to his ears. Judging by the smirk on his older brother's face, he's fairly certain it's not.

A light smack rattles his skull, shaking his curls down into his eyes as his mother taps the back of his head with the tips of her fingers as she re-enters the kitchen. "Ow!" Sherlock cries, hand flying to the back of his head, sharp eyes finding his mother to give her one serious outraged glare. It doesn't actually hurt, bruising nothing more than his ego, but he feels he should at least attempt to save face.

"Greg is here to spend Christmas with us," his mother replies pleasantly, though Sherlock can see the warning in her dark eyes, "because we invited him. Be nice or your invitation to be here may just get rescinded."

"Oh please, I  _live_  here," Sherlock bites back, still rubbing the back of his head and glaring pointedly at his mother.

"No you don't," John appears at his side, clearly enjoying the little domestic scene before him, "you live with me."

"Exactly, thank you, John," Mrs. Holmes smiles adoringly at the blond boy and pointedly ignores her youngest son. "And we are so pleased to have you here this year!" She turns her attention back to Sherlock, sunny features dropping into that stern motherly look she does so well. "Be nice in front of your guest," she orders.

Rolling his eyes, he acquiesces with his mother's wishes with a forced smile in Greg's direction. "So nice to see you," he bites out through clenched teeth.

To his credit, Greg, clearly well-versed in the Holmes' family dynamic by now, simply laughs and stands to introduce himself to John, dragging Mycroft by the hand along with him. Sherlock turns away, simply uninterested in the proceedings and attempting desperately to clamp down on the panic swirling inside him because this does not bode well for the…  _implications_  he'd been worried about before. They are in his family home. He's introduced John to his parents. Now his brother is here with his boyfriend? This little scene couldn't possibly get any worse unless that aforementioned t-shirt appeared on Sherlock's body right at this moment, though he's certain the tameness of the previous statement would change from  _I Wish You Were My Boyfriend_  to  _Please Be My Boyfriend, I Beg You._

Sherlock resists the urge to bury his face in his hands and prays that John is in a particularly ignorant mind-set this trip and ignores all these telling situations Sherlock has dragged him into.

"Alright, my darlings," Mrs. Holmes claps her hands together, all traces of irritated-while-attempting-to-keep-the-peace mother looks disappearing without a trace, "why don't you all go settle in. I trust my boys will get you both shown around the house, but be back in time for dinner. We're having soup which I know is terribly unexciting but tomorrow night we'll have our Christmas Eve family celebration before the extended family shows up on Christmas Day so please don't worry, there will be lots of delicious food to be had by all."

"And cookies," Sherlock leans in to whisper conspiratorially to John, the blond boy scooting closer to hear, "we make cookies all day long tomorrow."

"Excellent," John murmurs approvingly, licking his lips and then flashing a smile that makes Sherlock's stomach do funny things.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes and I have to make an appearance in town this evening for a fundraising event," Mrs. Holmes genuinely grumbles, looking none to pleased about leaving her only recently returned family at home, and Mr. Holmes mirrors her disappointment over the situation. "So you will be left to your own devices this evening. I've made a batch of hot buttered rum so please help yourselves to that. But," she continues, eyes lighting up with excitement, "you will all be stuck with us all day tomorrow so be prepared!"

"Can't wait," Mycroft mumbles with an eye-roll, though he snaps his mouth shut after Greg elbows him in the ribs.

And Sherlock can't help but grin. It really is Christmas and all of this sounds wonderful to him. As his mother shoos them all out of the kitchen, Sherlock notes the smile on his flatmate's face and blue eyes twinkling in something like excitement, looking entirely relaxed and anxiously awaiting what comes next on this trip.

And Sherlock decides right then that whatever else happens in the next few days, the decision to bring John home with him is one Sherlock will never regret.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"It's  _freezing_  down here," Sherlock grumbles, attempting to fold his arms over his chest while simultaneously keeping his full mug of hot buttered rum, with a splash of extra rum added to it, steady in his hand as he glares around the theater room in the basement. It's always chilly down here but that had somehow slipped his mind when he'd suggested John and he take in a movie down here after his parents had taken off to their event and Mycroft and Greg had disappeared to god knows where.

"You are  _such_ a baby," John laughs as he tugs the throw blanket covered in snowflakes off the back of the couch, unfolding it and tossing it over both their laps and, to Sherlock's surprise and utter delight, scoots closer to fit them both underneath comfortably.

"There we are," John grins and his thigh presses against Sherlock's, forcing a rather serious shiver to make its way down the curly-haired boy's spine. He thanks his past self for flipping the lights off before sitting down on the couch, effectively hiding the heat creeping into his cheeks.

"Right," Sherlock croaks, clearing his throat harshly and reaching for the remote. "Play?"

"Play," John agrees, snuggling deeper into the couch and, subsequently, closer to Sherlock's side, biceps now brushing, the entire right side of John's body pinned to Sherlock's left.

With a shaky breath and a trembling finger, Sherlock presses the play button on the remote and tries to focus on the telly and not the heat radiating off of the figure pressed against him.

It's proving to be  _impossible_.

Blinking rapidly, he focuses raptly on snowy cursive letters writing themselves across the screen, swirling along to form the words White Christmas, the title of the movie John had said he'd like to watch because that adorable blond boy had brought the DVD with him and how on earth could Sherlock say no to that?

Besides, the tattered, discoloring cover of the box made it clear that John had had this movie in his possession for quite some time, meaning it had obvious sentimental value, and Sherlock loathed to admit how much that moved him to agree to watch this film he'd never seen before. If it meant something to John, it meant something to Sherlock.

"Bing Crosby has the craziest voice," John murmurs beside him as the first scene opens to two men dancing on a makeshift stage in the middle of what looks like a terribly fake war camp. "Seriously, the way he sings, you can feel it bone deep."

"Mm," Sherlock murmurs with a nod as one of the men on the screen, presumably Bing Crosby, begins to sing a simple rendition of White Christmas and the curly-haired boy realizes he agrees with John's assessment as the voice coming from the surround-sound seems to seep into his skin, warming him all over. He grips his warm mug between his hands and eases back a bit, the buzzing of his slight frame finally calming, unsure if it's the music or the rum or the company that's making him feel rather content.

"My mum loved this song," John breathes beside him suddenly and Sherlock's heart clenches in his chest, wishing so much that he could pull his flatmate closer and cuddle him, tell him he's sorry he doesn't have his mother around anymore, tell him he's a part of the Holmes family now, tell him he's not alone.

Instead, Sherlock opts for a gentle press of his body to John's, hoping his offer of comfort is obvious enough. He feels a slight push back as though the original lean was accepted and it's such a simple thing but Sherlock's body warms happily anyway. He takes another sip from his mug and attempts to watch John watching this movie that clearly means something to him, though if Sherlock is being honest he could do without the elaborate dancing to each new song – because apparently this is a musical - though it helps a bit to watch John mouth the words to each number, obviously well-versed in the soundtrack.

Keeping a steady commentary going as the movie plays, Sherlock realizes John is attempting to keep him entertained, clearly catching on that this film isn't exactly Sherlock's cup of tea. He murmurs random facts about the film and the actors, telling Sherlock all about the set and the way they filmed and why. John knows quite a bit about this movie which is precious and endearing and only proving the fact that this obviously means so much more to the blond boy than a silly musical about Christmas. Sherlock indulges himself, letting John's soft tenor wrap him up in comfort, barely hearing an actual word John is saying and not caring in the slightest, simply enjoying being near him and having his attention like this.

As two women appear on the screen in blue, sparkling dresses, singing about the fact that they are sisters – how utterly dull – Sherlock notes John shifting slightly in his seat, and he turns his head to see John's mouth hanging open slightly and leaning forward a bit, eyes locked on the screen as though he'd never seen it before, although it was very clear that he had multiple times. Glancing back to the screen, Sherlock tries to determine what has caught John's attention so profoundly.

"Look at her waist," John murmurs as though in shock, pointing a finger at one of the women on the screen. "I've never seen this on this big of a screen before but… Jesus, her waist is so  _small_. Look how  _tiny_  she is."

Ah.

Of course.

John is admiring a pretty girl and her  _small waist_.

Lovely.

Biting down on bitter jealousy, because he has absolutely no interest in women or their tiny waistlines, Sherlock hums a noncommittal sound, irritated that he'd agreed to watch this ridiculous movie just to appease John when all the blond boy planned to do was ogle the women on screen.

Just barely managing to avoid a sound of disgust, Sherlock slumps back on the couch and glares at the two blue-swathed sisters, according to the song anyway, just as they close the number with flurries of their feather fans and obnoxious smiles at their suitors in the audience.

"Oh, I love the next song," John continues his commentary as though he hadn't just been checking out the petite, beautiful blonde woman on screen. Sherlock takes immense pleasure in the fact that this woman is most likely dead now, judging by when this movie was made and how old she is in it.

"Mm," is his response, not trusting himself with real words, still attempting to simmer his boiling envy.

"You hate this, don't you," John turns a smile to him, keeping his features bright but Sherlock can sense the smallest bit of hurt in his eyes.

The curly-haired boy suddenly feels terrible. "No- no, it…it's… fine," he stumbles over his words in his haste to make John feel better, internally kicking himself for making John feel anything other than completely wonderful.

Staring for a moment longer than necessary before a grin breaks out on his face, John is suddenly giggling, reaching for Sherlock's mug and taking it from his hands, depositing both of their cups on the coffee table before standing.

And then he turns.

And extends a hand out to Sherlock.

Attempting not to squirm as something warms his belly at the sight of John Watson holding his hand, palm up, out to Sherlock, offering it to him, like it's something for him to take and hold and touch, the curly-haired boy opts for knitting his eyebrows together in feigned confusion, terrified of miss-stepping in this situation, or, godforbid, misinterpreting and making a fool of himself.

John wiggles his fingers. "Come on," he laughs, smile never fading from his face, "this really  _is_  a great song."

Glancing up at the screen, Sherlock sees the small-waisted girl and one of the leading men sneaking off out into what is supposed to be a dock overlooking the water, but it's so terribly fake that it catches Sherlock's attention for a moment long enough for John to reach out and grab his hand, pulling him up and off the couch.

And into John Watson's arms with an  _oomph_.

"Careful," John giggles, guiding Sherlock's hand up and wrapping it around John's neck delicately, sweeping up Sherlock's other hand in his own and laying it in John's. Breath catching harshly in his throat as John's other hand settles on his lower back and presses him closer, Sherlock is certain that this is how he will die, unable to suck in any air because he's so damn close to what he wants most it makes him ache.

"Alright?" John whispers as his hips start to sway, bringing Sherlock along with him in a slow rhythm, music from the film filling the room as they dance.

"Yes," Sherlock manages to croak, closing his eyes as John's temple makes contact with the line of his jaw, making him almost tremble with how close they are and he can't help but melt into the embrace, soaking up every place they touch, every breath John breathes in his ear, every movement of their bodies together. He can barely manage to move, practically clinging to John, allowing himself to be guided along.

" _The best things_ ," John is suddenly murmuring in his ear softly, singing along to the music on the screen, " _happen while you're dancing. Things that you would not do at home come naturally on the floor_."

Biting down on his bottom lip to keep from grinning to hard, Sherlock's rum-warmed, or maybe just proximity-to-John-warmed body sways along with John's, sneaking slightly closer with every movement until they're practically cheek-to-cheek. The music speeds up and slows down but John never moves them quicker than a steady wave back and forth, shifting from foot to foot, making it simple and easy for Sherlock to follow along.

And if Sherlock's fingers find their way into the hairs at the base of John's neck and if his breath in John's ear quickens just a bit as they move and if a small, sad little  _oh_  escapes his lips when the song ends and there is no further reason for them to stay this close, well, John is kind enough not to mention it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours and three mugs of buttered rum later, Sherlock is fumbling his way up the stairs, attempting to keep himself together long enough to make it to his room, John hot on his heels on the way to one of the spare rooms he's sleeping in, giggling as stupidly as Sherlock is, equally clumsy with heavy, alcohol-soaked steps.

"You're drunk," Sherlock stage-whispers, collapsing into a fit of laughter when John grabs his ankle, making him stumble on the steps.

"Am not," John slurs, giving Sherlock's foot a squeeze before releasing his grip, huffing out soft chuckles of his own.

"Are too," Sherlock challenges as they reach the top of the flight. The hallway is dark and Sherlock fumbles a hand along the wall for a light switch, bleary eyes having difficulty adjusting in the dark. "Jesus, where are the damn lights?"

"Wait," John's hand is suddenly wrapping around Sherlock's wrist, effectively stopping him in front of one of the doors in the hallway.

Spinning around with a frown, Sherlock immediately opens his mouth to protest before a palm is suddenly silencing him, closing around his mouth. "Shh," John murmurs, though his eyes only land on Sherlock for a moment before they slide away to focus on the dark floor as though he's focusing on-

"Oh,  _Gregory_ ," a low, muffled moan comes from behind the door they're standing in front of, the voice carrying the words all too familiar. "Oh,  _yes_."

And something heavy plummets into the pit of Sherlock's stomach.

Blue eyes finally slide up from the floor to find Sherlock's again, wide and round and shining with realization before crinkling with barely concealed mirth as John pinches his lips together to keep himself from laughing, the corners of his mouth pressed together so tightly they're turning white. "Oh my-"

"Hush, love," Greg's voice is next from beyond the block of wood separating the two parties, "You've got to keep quiet or they'll here us."

"Do that again," Mycroft ignores the warning, followed by another low groan and another shush.

And that's about all he can take before Sherlock is desperately attempting to shut every sound around him from coming into his ears, but for some godforsaken reason he can't move because he's too bloody horrified that he's currently hearing his older brother having sex and it's too much, it's  _too much_.

Still attempting not to laugh, John is of sound enough mind to drag Sherlock by his wrist down the hall and into his room, pushing Sherlock's shocked body in and closing the door softly behind him.

Where he turns and, of course, bursts into peels of laughter.

"My god," Sherlock breathes, feeling utterly ill and horrified and disgusted. "Oh my  _god_."

"Wow," John is still cracking up, body rocking back and forth as he clutches his stomach, "In your  _parent's house_." That sends him into another fit of laughter.

Ringing his hands out in front of him as if to shake off the memory of his brother moaning –  _ugh!_  - a shiver of disgust vibrates Sherlock's body. "God… I…  _God_!"

"Oh come on," John grins at him, frame still shaking with mirth, "it's not  _that_ bad. I mean I know sex isn't your thing but that could have been a lot worse."

"It's my  _brother_ ," Sherlock exclaims incredulously. "It's  _disgusting_." He turns back toward his window, before the rest of John's statement catches up to him and he whirls back around. "What does that mean?"

Wiping actual tears from his eyes, John glances up to him. "What does what mean?"

"That thing about… that thing you said," Sherlock fumbles, rolling his hand in the air as if to explain. "About… about me and - … and sex."

Sobering slightly, John blinks at him, brows knitted. "I just meant that, you know," he shrugs, "that you're not into sex."

Frowning, Sherlock cocks his head. "Why do you say that?"

Starting to fidget slightly under his stare, John hesitates momentarily before saying, "Well, you don't… you haven't had it since I moved in… have you?"

"No," Sherlock shrugs. "That doesn't mean I don't like it."

Which is true. Sherlock isn't a virgin, but he doesn't do casual sex and there hasn't been anybody he's wanted to sleep with, besides the boy standing in front of him, which explains his abstinence. To him, anyway. No way in hell will he be telling John any of that.

"Oh," John frowns as though in deep thought before his eyes widen. " _Oh_! So… so you're not…. You have had… you're not a…"

"Virgin?" Sherlock supplies him because John is being rather stupid at the moment and he figures he better help him out.

Although, why John even cares about Sherlock's sexuality is completely beyond him. And why Sherlock is indulging this conversation also seems to be beyond him.

 _Because he's John_ , his brain supplies for him,  _and you do anything for John_.

Nodding and - unless the twinkling lights lining Sherlock's window are tricking him –  _blushing_ , John stares at the ground.

"No," Sherlock shakes his head. "Not a virgin."

And even to his ears, his somewhat still drunk ears but nonetheless, the statement sounds more like… like an invitation than anything and Sherlock is about to backtrack on his words, realizing how much of a come on they sounded like.

And John is staring at him, clearly having heard the comment the same way.

And it's like being stuck in some awful limbo, the moment stretching out and almost landing in awkward territory, almost forcing Sherlock to fidget under the stare of his flatmate, and he's unsure what to do with himself.

Then, John's gaze falls to his lips.

And all of Sherlock's thoughts come grinding to a halt.

Unable to tear his eyes away from those beautiful blue orbs, he watches John watch his lips, practically panting under the look, just barely managing to keep himself from licking his lips in invitation because what the hell is going on?

"We're drunk," John announces softly, eyes still locked on Sherlock's lips, "I… we're drunk."

The second time he says it has more weight and suddenly the moment is broken as John's eyes tear themselves away and skitter across the dark floor.

Embarrassment.

Shame.

All the worst emotions about the best moment of Sherlock's life flit across John's features and a tiny crack ripples down the center of Sherlock's heart.

"I… I'd better-" John mumbles to himself before turning and reaching for the door, slipping out of the room with a few quick steps.

Sherlock doesn't know how long he stays standing in the middle of his softly lit room, but he doesn't move until he hears his parents arrive home from their event and even after that, he doesn't sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"John Watson, that snow bear looks  _marvelous_ ," Mrs. Holmes' croons, beaming in the blond boy's direction where John is currently puffing out his chest and standing a little straighter at the praise, admiring the cookie covered in white frosting in his hand in the shape of a teddy bear.

"Thank you," he grins, dabbing small black dots of frosting for the eyes and nose.

Heart warming at the happy little glow in John's cheeks, Sherlock works on his own cookie in the shape of a Christmas tree, decorating it with little star sprinkles and generally making a mess. It's one of the Holmes' traditions he loves; decorating cookies on Christmas Eve, though if he's being honest, his love for this has only heightened with John being here to enjoy it with him. Even after the confusing events of the previous night, nothing seemed to be amiss this morning through breakfast or the afternoon of baking and chatting with the family, so Sherlock is planning to simply sweep it under the rug. It's the holiday spirit, he thinks. It must make some people do crazy things. Besides, John is entirely overwhelmed in the best way possible with all the family surrounding him, taking him in as one of their own. He probably just got a little too comfortable with Sherlock. Or maybe it was the rum.

But whatever it was, it's over now and things are as they should be. No cuddling or dancing or touching or longing stares or lip-watching. Just friendly banter as always. Like it should it.

So why Sherlock hates it more than normal makes him a bit furious but he clamps down on that and focuses on his cookie making skills and his happy friend and the joys of Christmas.

Even if the only thing that would make Christmas better would be if last night wasn't a mistake and John Watson wasn't just his friend.

Shaking his head, Sherlock refocuses, pushing the stars around his tiny tree, attempting to clean the chaos into something nice.

"You know," Mrs. Holmes leans in beside John conspiratorially, "the snow bears are Sherlock's favorite."

Head whipping around to catch his mother's mischievous grin right before she drops it innocently as John glances up to her with interest, Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"Really?" John smiles, looking a bit pleased with this information.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Holmes nods, "Hasn't he told you all about his fascination with bees?"

"Mummy," Sherlock warns, face heating with embarrassment, wondering when his mother had become _that_  mother who loves to tease her son. Yes, he likes bees. So what? It's not some bit of important information for his flatmate to have. And certainly not-

"You like bees?" John is currently beaming at him, smiling so hard his cheeks look like they ache.

"Mm," is Sherlock's reply, knowing exactly where this is going. "They are fascinating creatures. Anyway, could you pass me the-"

"Well, it's not so much the bees as it is the honey, right dear?" his mother asks as though she isn't currently working a plan to embarrass the hell out of him.

"Ah," John nods in understanding, "and bears love honey."

Nodding with pride as though John making this connection is the most brilliant thing in the world, Mrs. Holmes says, "Yes exactly. There aren't any bees around in the winter so we make do with the bears."

"Makes sense," John laughs, elbowing Sherlock in the rib in a good-natured jostle and Sherlock hopes that that is the end of the conversation with-

"Well, that," Mrs. Holmes continues as Sherlock's stomach drops to his toes, "and Sherlock loved Winnie the Pooh when he was a boy."

" _Mummy_!" the curly-haired boy cries as blood rushes to his cheeks in a fierce blush, never intending on John finding out that little piece of information about his childhood.

"Isn't that  _adorable_?" His mother leans in, chuckling along as John tosses his back and laughs. "He had a little stuffed bear and everything-"

"Yes,  _thank you_  for bringing up such fond memories of my childhood," Sherlock barks out, cutting her off with a glare, "but maybe we could focus on getting these cookies sorted instead of humiliating me?"

"Why would that humiliate you?" John giggles, giving Sherlock a nudge with his arm. "It is  _quite_ adorable. I can only just picture tiny Sherlock all cuddled up with a little teddy in his arms-"

" _Alright_ ," Sherlock shuts up him with a snipped order, though it hardly hinders John's laughter to Sherlock's dismay.

"Wait, so why are we making snow bears then?" John cocks his head down at the cookie in his hand. "Why not just regular old bears? Or, better yet, Pooh himself?"

"It has nothing to do with-"

"Christmas theme, of course," Mrs. Holmes cuts her youngest son off from attempting to divert the conversation elsewhere and hide his complete love for the holiday.

"Aww," John teases, grinning absolutely madly up at Sherlock, and the curly-haired boy can't really find it in himself to be mad at that gorgeous smile, "You are just a big softy about Christmas, aren't you?"

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbles, fighting hard against a grin of his own and failing spectacularly.

"Alright, are we just about finished in here?" Mr. Holmes calls from the entryway, "Greg and Myc have just finished trimming the tree and we are ready for presents!"

"If you ever wonder where Sherlock gets his Christmas cheer from, you don't have to look far," Mrs. Holmes nudges John as she nods to her husband in mock-seriousness, sending John into another fit of laughter.

"Oh my god," Sherlock rolls his eyes, completely horrified that his hidden love for this time of year has been divulged to John by none other than his  _mother_.

"Don't be mad at her," John leans over, dropping his voice as the Holmes parents make their way out of the kitchen together, and apparently reading Sherlock's thoughts, "you were doing a terrible job of hiding it, anyway."

"No I wasn't," Sherlock argues, following the blond boy to the sitting room.

"Yes you were," John calls over his shoulder before making his way over to the newly lit tree. "Wow, well done fellas! This looks fantastic."

"Not bad for a first timer," Mycroft grins down at his boyfriend and Greg returns a soppy look of his own.

And Sherlock shudders, blinking away the memory of the night before, still working tirelessly at deleting every little peep he may have heard.

"Sit, sit!" Mrs. Holmes flaps her hands at her children and their guests, scurrying over to the tree and crouching down to find the presents she wants to start with. "Hang on, I've got something for… ah, Greg here's yours," she lifts a small box and hands it blindly behind her and Greg hurries forward to gather it.

"Oh, y-you didn't have to-" he stammers out before Mrs. Holmes shushes him.

"Hush. And John, here is yours."

Something small and irreplaceable breaks open in Sherlock's chest and floods his insides with euphoric joy at the sight of John Watson's pink, surprised face upon seeing a gift thrust in his direction. His heart lurches harshly in his chest, bursting with such intense emotion Sherlock has to cover a small sob with a throat clear, overcome by the sight before him.

"Oh," John reaches shaky hands out to accept his gift, blue eyes wide and round and full of such happy shock that it takes every effort on Sherlock's part not to go to him immediately and wrap his arms around the blond boy and pull him as close as humanly possible. "I…thank you. Thank you very much."

Sherlock's mother is intelligent enough to not turn around and embarrass John by gushing at him, although he notes Mrs. Holmes ducking her head further down under the tree, hiding what is surely a grin and maybe damp eyes. "Alright," she mutters to herself as though deeply in thought, "what else have I got under here…"

As his mother continues to rummage around among the boxes, Sherlock tracks John in his peripheral vision as the boy makes his way back to his seat on the couch, present clutched in his grasp, practically emanating a ray of light for how hard he's beaming down to the gift-wrapped box.

And Sherlock just can't help adding just a dash more happiness to that precious, round face and just barely avoids diving under the tree to grab another small present, one he'd purchased and wrapped all on his own, not half as perfectly as his mother had but he's hoping John won't mind too much.

"Here," he whips back around and thrusts the small box on top of the one John has already placed neatly in his lap, "this one is from me."

Lips parting slightly on a gasp and blonde brows shooting upward, blue eyes widen down at the addition to the now  _pile_  of gifts, a precious look of surprise taking over those features so perfectly, it's the best gift anyone has ever given Sherlock Holmes. The gift of seeing John Watson happy on Christmas Eve is by far and away the most magical thing in the world.

"Oh… thank you," John murmurs, gaze dragging up to meet his as he blinks several time before a slow smile spreads across his features, warm and kind and radiating in Sherlock's direction, as though Sherlock is the marvel here. Which is ridiculous. It is  _John_  who is the marvel. "Thank you," John repeats a bit softer.

Cheeks heating just a bit, Sherlock looks away and drops heavily into the seat beside his flatmate, unable to look at him directly any longer without swooning like a moron, but unwilling to leave his side. "Open it," he encourages as he eyes the rest of his family settling in with small mounds of gifts surrounding each of their feet, even Sherlock's somehow appearing beside him, clearly while he'd been gawking at his friend like a lovesick schoolboy.

Glancing up to find Greg and Mycroft off in their own little world, opening each other's presents and grinning stupidly at each other while Mr. and Mrs. Holmes pretend not to be watching, John nods, clearly pleased that no one is going to be watching him rip open wrapping paper, and sets about doing just that, flashing Sherlock subtle grins as he works the ribbons and tape free.

"It's nothing, really," Sherlock mutters, suddenly panicked that this gift is completely ridiculous, that John might find it silly or, god forbid  _sentimental_ , and another swoop of terror at being caught out about his feelings for his flatmate rolls through the curly-haired boy, feeling completely idiotic for ever even considering it.

The last of the paper tears itself free in John's hand and the first inch of the maroon leather is revealed beneath his hands and Sherlock finds he can't breath for a long moment.

Brows pinching in curiosity, John prods the item carefully out of its wrappings before his hand freezes slightly as the cover of the notebook is revealed, his own breath catching as his eyes rake over his new belonging.

It had been made to order by some Italian designer Sherlock had found online, that handmade things like leather bound journals, as well as engraving them for an extra fee which Sherlock took full advantage of, the letters J and W etched side by side on the cover in gold lettering, perfectly aligned to Sherlock's specifications.

It's a gorgeous journal, if Sherlock does say so himself. And he's hoping desperately that John loves it as much as Sherlock wants him to. John had recently expressed interest in starting a blog about Sherlock. Literally, about Sherlock. John had teased on multiple occasions that no one would ever believe him if he told anyone about half the things Sherlock did in their flat and decided he should be documenting it somehow. Maybe it was a terribly selfish thing to think but Sherlock adored the idea of John dedicating an entire blog to him, spending hours upon hours creating entries focused solely on the curly-haired boy. And besides that, John is not a half-bad writer. He's no literary genius but he enjoys it and spends more time on his creative writing class than he does on his actual major courses so a journal seemed utterly perfect as a Christmas gift. A win for them both.

Though now, Sherlock is vastly unsure if this was the right thing to purchase for his flatmate because John is currently staring down at the notebook in his hand, features completely frozen, mouth hanging slightly open. He hasn't moved an inch since revealing the entire cover and Sherlock is starting to worry.

"I… I know it's a bit much," he ventures, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, "and I know you have a laptop and all that but I just thought… well, that this might be nice for you to keep thoughts and things in. I mean you did say you wanted to start a blog, although I'm aware now that maybe you'd rather type and not write so I understand if-"

"Sherlock," John's voice cracks the slightest, and Sherlock shuts up immediately. "Sherlock, I…" John seems unable to finish a sentence, eyes trained on the notebook. He runs his fingers gently over his initials, breath catching as he traces the letters. "I… thank you." He glances up, blue eyes bright and shinier than Sherlock has ever seen them. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," Sherlock all but whispers with a nod and a soft smile, letting himself be absorbed into the moment that he, Sherlock bloody Holmes has just made John Watson happy.

On  _Christmas Eve_.

Seriously, could life be any better than this?

Well, of course it could. If John were actually his, then yes maybe things would be slightly better. But only slightly. Because now? Now is pretty damn wonderful.

"I… I have something for you, too," John blinks his wet eyes away and reaches behind the couch, his hand returning clutching a tiny box, wrapped simply, no bows, no ribbons, no fuss.

Just like John himself.

Grinning so ridiculously hard, Sherlock reaches out and grasps the gift, excitement thrumming in his veins, slightly embarrassed at how thrilled he is to receive anything from his flatmate at all. He doesn't hesitate, tearing the wrapping free from the box rapidly, anticipation making his fingers clumsy.

"Easy there, killer," John laughs at Sherlock's haste, shaking his head fondly.

Sherlock doesn't care. He has a present from John. It's the best thing in the world, whatever it is and John can laugh all he wants at Sherlock's excitement.

Freeing a small white box, Sherlock plucks the lid off with his fingertips and peers inside.

And suddenly he understands John's reaction to the gift Sherlock had given him moments ago so very, very well. A swell of emotion roils itself up inside of him, threatening to crash down and drown him in a sea of John Watson's perfection because what Sherlock holds in his hand right at this moment is unbelievable.

A small, square piece of glass, lined with black trim stares back at him, so simple and yet so elegant and perfect and exactly what he needs and how,  _how_  did John know-

"I know it's lame," John mutters, "but a few months ago you'd said you wanted to be a detective after school ends and, well, I know detectives need to see things pretty closely and, I mean, I know it's little but I really think it could come in handy."

"John," Sherlock whispers, plucking the small hand lens up with his fingers delicately, not wanting to dirty up the glass or, god forbid drop it, turning it back and forth in the light. Oh yes, this will do. This will do just fine. "It's perfect," he speaks to the lens, flicking it up to find, to his delight, that there are two levels of magnification.

And perfect John Watson found the perfect gift and Sherlock could kiss him. Right here, in front of Mycroft and everyone, Sherlock could lay a big smacker on John's lips and not give a single fuck.

"Yeah?" John sounds so hopeful, as though Sherlock may not love this gift, which is so patently ridiculous, Sherlock shoots him an incredulous stare because John is truly an idiot if he doesn't realize what he's done.

Laughing, John says, "Alright. Good," with a nod, before turning away, still radiating self-satisfaction.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock settles in as his family begins to open the remainder of their presents, though he never quite lets the little white box out of his grasp for too long, barely paying attention to the rest of the gifts that he opens because he's already gotten the best thing in the world. And it's from  _John_.

"Alright boys! Couples pictures by the tree!" Mrs. Holmes announces as Mr. Holmes begins to pick up the scraps of discarded wrapping paper and toss them in a garbage bag, everyone having opened all of their presents.

And just like that, Sherlock's happy little bubble is promptly burst open.

Stomach rolling at the implications of his mother's words, Sherlock shoots a panicked glance at his flatmate, who is currently assisting in the clean up and not reacting at all to Mrs. Holmes words.

Maybe he hadn't heard them. Maybe he'd been too preoccupied and missed it.

And in all honesty, Sherlock isn't sure how to feel about that.

On the one hand, he's thankful for missing another embarrassing moment implying him and John as a couple.

On the other hand, Sherlock has to admit he's a bit frustrated. He  _wants_  to be a couple. He wants this with John so much. And after last night, after that blip of a moment that seemed to go on for ages at the time, a tiny sliver of hope has subconsciously consumed the curly-haired boy and he desperately wants to poke this fragile situation and see what happens. See how John reacts. See if there is any sort of potential.

Because, for some awful reason, Sherlock is moving past the fear of John finding out about his feelings and moving toward wanting John to find out and just see. Just see what happens.

Which is a huge gamble. A giant risk that could leave Sherlock with absolutely nothing.

But… but what if there is a chance? A shot that Sherlock never takes?

Stupid sodding White Christmas and its stupid sodding music about dancing, this  _never_  would have happened without it-

"Alright, John and Sherlock, you're up," Mrs. Holmes beams at them both, apparently unaware of her outrageous comment and Sherlock's circling thoughts, and waves them over to the tree where Mycroft and Greg are just shifting away, arms still wrapped around each other.

Rolling his eyes at his ridiculous brother, Sherlock steps up and finds John right with him, settling in beside him and wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him close and angling them in a v-shape toward each other.

Like a couple.

Like John is completely at ease looking like a  _couple_.

And it sets something off in Sherlock's head, something feral and bitter and angry that everyone thinks this is all  _fine_ , that all the implications of this trip and all of the comments made and all of the things that have happened are completely friend-approved, not a peep out of John about discomfort of being thought of as Sherlock's boyfriend, not a concern voiced about dancing close and lingering stares and couples pictures  _of all things_.

The camera snaps and his mother coos at the photo and Sherlock gets just a bit angrier that his mother isn't on his side for any of this, egging it on if anything. Doesn't she understand the turmoil this is putting her son through? He rarely gets angry with his mother, but tonight, Sherlock is  _angry_.

"Alright my darlings, us old people need to sleep," Mrs. Holmes yawns enormously and smiles at each of her children and their guests, eyes resting lastly on Sherlock for a moment longer, brows creasing in confusion as he stares thunderously back at her. "Sherlock?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stands. "Well, goodnight," he says curtly as his thoughts spin around his head. He excuses himself out of the room and heads out into snow-covered backyard, taking a deep, steady breath of the cool air. Usually on this day every year, his biggest worry would be if it were going to snow tonight or tomorrow for Christmas Day, checking the weather app on his phone and staring out the window excitedly, giddy with the idea of a white Christmas.

Not tonight, though. Tonight his thoughts are far from the weather.

The door behind him opens and he inhales sharply on an irritated growl, exceptionally annoyed that his mother couldn't just leave him be for tonight, let him be angry until he was calm enough to talk to her. "What?" he barks out sharply, stubbornly refusing to turn around, blinking out into the dark night. "You couldn't just leave me to my sulk?"

"Oh, I-" John Watson's beautiful tenor voice murmurs uncomfortably behind him and Sherlock freezes. "Sorry, I just… I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I'm fine," Sherlock replies, the bitterness in his voice easing only slightly, although he's also a bit irritated with John and isn't too pleased for him to be out here, running to his rescue like some…  _boyfriend_.

Ugh.

The thought of the word only heightens Sherlock's fury.

"You're clearly not," John says a bit firmer, feet crunching in the snow as he walks closer to Sherlock. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Sherlock mutters. "Everything is fine."

"No it isn't," John pushes, making his way around to step in front of Sherlock, who refuses to look at him, staring out past his head. "Come on, out with it. What happened?"

"Leave it, John."

"No," John shakes his head. "It's Christmas and you're sulking. Come on, tell me. Is it because I decorated your snow bear?"

"No," Sherlock snips with a roll of his eyes.

"I didn't know it was your favorite," John stares up at him with big, blue teasing eyes, lips twitching with the effort not to grin around his fake apology. "I promise, scouts honor, I won't touch your snow bear next year, he is all yours-"

"Oh my god,  _stop_ ," Sherlock barks, eyes racing down to fix John with a heated glare. Next  _year_? Like John plans on being around then? Like some sodding  _boyfriend_? "Stop  _doing_ that."

Taking a small step back at the tone, John says, "Doing what?" with a furrowed, confused brow.

"Stop acting like-" Sherlock just barely manages to shut himself up before the word spills out of his mouth.

"Like what?" John pushes, tone hardening with his own anger at Sherlock's hesitation.

"Nothing."

"Like  _what_ , Sherlock?" John has rocketed to full blown anger of his own.

And later, Sherlock will blame what he says next on that.

"Like you're my  _boyfriend_ ," Sherlock snaps, glaring so hard his eyes almost close altogether. "Stop acting like we're a  _couple_ , stop accepting my _family_  acting like we're a couple, stop pretending like this whole sodding trip hasn't made everything completely  _obvious_ , just  _stop_."

Face going ghostly pale, John takes a step back as though slapped by Sherlock's words. "What?" he says softly, looking bewildered and… hurt?

Sending him another scathing look, because he is  _not_ allowed to be hurt when  _Sherlock_ is the one who is hurt, Sherlock's frustration hits its peak and suddenly he's speaking rapidly, every thought in his head rushing out of his mouth.

"Jesus, John, I know that you know, alright?" he practically barks accusatorily, "It couldn't be more obvious, my fucking mother of all people has made good and damn sure that you are aware that I like you more than a friend. And I didn't mean to drag you here and play pretend boyfriends for Christmas, that wasn't my intention at all, but it's so obvious to my family about my feelings, they apparently find it hilarious to tease me about it with you. But it's  _confusing_  when  _you_  don't deny it, when…" Sherlock fumbles, his monologue suddenly becoming less angry as John's face creases with more confusion, brows creasing further with every one of Sherlock's words. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Blue eyes widening as though caught out completely, John darts his gaze away and to the ground. "I… Jesus, well this is bloody humiliating to admit to now," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck, "but I… well, I thought we  _were_  boyfriends," John grumbles with some irritation coloring his words, though it's tamed by the redness staining his cheeks.

It takes a long minute for that to sink in, Sherlock blinking rapidly, attempting to make his brain comprehend that. "I…" he starts and stops, shaking his head slightly. "You… you…what?"

"Yeah," John sighs, looking slightly exhausted and a bit sad as he kicks at the snow. "I, uh, I sort of already thought we were together."

"Why on earth would you think that?" Sherlock snaps, confusion coming out as anger, because he doesn't bloody understand and he  _hates_  not understanding.

"Seriously?" John shoots him an incredulous, irritated look. "I mean, come on, we do  _everything_  together, Sherlock. We're literally together constantly."

"We live together," Sherlock challenges, waiting for his brain to come back online and jump for joy that John Watson thought Sherlock Holmes was his boyfriend.

"Well, yeah," John concedes, before he finds his footing again, "but when I tried dating, you told me you didn't like it."

"I  _didn't_  like it," Sherlock agrees, still completely missing the point.

"Sherlock, you said 'I don't want you dating other people'," John glares at him. "I thought that was Sherlock-speak for 'we're together now exclusively'."

"I was just stating a fact, I didn't know you were going to take it to heart," Sherlock bites back.

"Well, I did," John snips, "and we do couple things all the time. I mean, Christ, I'm home with you for Christmas! You think I'd just go home with any of my buddies for the holidays?"

"Yes!" Sherlock all but shouts back.

"Well, I wouldn't," John continues to send him scathing looks.

"I… but…" Sherlock flounders for a moment before regaining his argument, "but you're straight!"

Brows raising to his hairline, apparently shocked at this accusation, John says, "No I'm not," almost amused.

Which makes Sherlock even angrier. "Yes you are! You dated  _girls_ , John.  _Two_  of them. Just last night you were banging on about how good-looking that woman in the movie we watched was."

"What?" John's amusement vanishes instantly, "No I didn't."

"Yes you did," Sherlock replies petulantly. "You went on and on about her small waist and… and… well, just her waist but obviously you noticed her body."

"Okay, were you listening to me at all last night? That actress was known for having the smallest waist in Hollywood at the time. She was very unhealthy and sick all the time. I told you that before we actually saw her on screen. I thought you'd find it  _interesting_."

"Well, okay, maybe I missed that," Sherlock rolls his eyes, though his anger is waning to something softer as John refutes every one of his arguments in favor of them being a couple. "But I definitely didn't miss you dating two girls at the beginning of term."

"Yes," John nods pleasantly, "because I'm bisexual and at the time I was unaware my gorgeous flatmate was into me until the second girl got chased off by said flatmate and then said flatmate told me to stop dating."

"Again, I didn't know you were going to take that seriously," Sherlock mutters, bitter knot loosening ever so slightly. "But… but we…" he flounders for another argument for a moment before snapping his fingers. "But we haven't kissed! Couples kiss. And have sex. We haven't had sex either." Feeling quite smug for recalling another issue with their supposed relationship, Sherlock crosses his arms and smirks down at the blond boy.

"Because I thought you didn't like any of that!" John barks, wiping that smirk right off Sherlock's face with a steady glare. "I thought you weren't into sex or kissing or anything. Well, I mean I didn't until last night."

"You thought…" Sherlock pauses to absorb that information before frowning, traces of anger falling away as he stares at his flatmate. "You thought I wasn't into any of that?"

Shaking his head, John keeps his mouth shut, his face unreadable.

Scrubbing a hand down his face and huffing out a humorless laugh, Sherlock has never been more confused. "So you thought you were in a no-kissing, sexless relationship with me?"

Nodding once firmly, John waits.

"And you were  _okay_ with that?" Sherlock practically yells, on the verge of being properly irritated all over again and that precious, beautiful John had thought Sherlock had been denying him sex and kisses and love all this time and had been totally at peace with it.

"Yes!" John barks back, "I was okay with it because I thought you were a virgin and I didn't want to push you when you weren't ready for any of that!"

"Oh so you were  _fine_  with not having sex with me?" Sherlock bites back in return. "Did you even want to?"

"Of course I did!" John volleys back, stepping forward, "But I wasn't going to put my needs above yours! I was trying to be… Jesus, are you seriously offended? You didn't even know we were together for the last three months!"

" _Three months_?" Sherlock booms, jaw dropping. "You've been in a sexless relationship with me for  _three months_?"

"Oh my god, would you stop  _saying_  that?" John shouts, stepping closer, fury glowing in his eyes, "I thought we were waiting!"

" _Waiting_?!" Sherlock hollers. "Waiting for  _what_?  _Christmas_?!"

"Apparently," John growls.

And then he's lunging.

Sherlock catches him on a lunge of his own and their mouths collide violently, cold faces pressing together but Christ, Sherlock doesn't care because John Watson is kissing him like  _that_  and it's perfect. It's  _everything_. Prying each other's mouths open, John's warm tongue delves in to find Sherlock's, rolling over it in hurries waves, grabbing Sherlock's shirt and hauling him closer, licking into his mouth, extracting panting moans from the curly-haired boy and taking no pity whatsoever.

Sherlock groans and hangs on tight, accepting and giving back everything he's got, hands finding their way into John's hair and holding fast, cold lips crashing against John's again and again. There is teeth and tongue and Sherlock begins to shake as the cold catches up with his brain, all thoughts of anger and fury subsiding as he finally has what he wants; John in his arms.

And he cannot get  _enough_. He arches against the shorter boy, attempting to pull him impossibly closer as arousal swirls low in Sherlock's belly, making his cock swell in his trousers and grind his hips into John's, suddenly very aware of the fact that he hasn't had sex in a while and that he's wanted to have sex with John for a very long time, and those two facts collide in a solid shake of his body against John's.

"Inside," John pants into his mouth. "Now."

No need to be told twice, Sherlock attempts to keep his hold on John as they stumble into the now dark house, the rest of the family apparently having gone off to bed while they've been arguing, leaving the two of them alone.

"Upstairs," John directs and they fumble their way through the dark, stealing heated kisses and gropes along the way, barely managing to make it to Sherlock's room before finally  _finally_  they're alone and warm, the only light coming from the lights stringed up along Sherlock's window. He reaches for John again as the door closes, attempting to close the distance between them again, unable to stay away for too long from his now-boyfriend.

"Wait, Sherlock, h-hang on," John gasps. "Just… just give me a minute here."

"What's the matter?" the curly-haired boy ventures, still holding fast to John's shirt, unwilling to let go at this point, though a cool wave of panic is slowly rolling through him. "Do you… do you not want this? I… I mean I know last night you didn't want to… I mean you left after a pretty charged moment and…"

Eyes flying open at his words, the incredulous look John gives him eases his inner-turmoil slightly. "Oh god, no," John breathes, pressing his lips against Sherlock's in a brief, reassuring kiss, "I mean… I mean  _yes_  of course I want this - Christ, more than _anything_ , Sherlock. I didn't kiss you last night because we were drunk and I refused to let our first kiss be while under the influence. But you… You have to understand I didn't even know this was an  _option_  until about thirty seconds ago and I – it's… it's a bit overwhelming, if I'm being honest."

The knot in Sherlock's stomach begins to loosen a bit as he blinks back in understanding. "Overwhelming like… like good overwhelming? Or-"

" _Good_ ," John emphasizes, pulling Sherlock slightly closer. " _Very_ good. I swear. I just… there are so many things I want Sherlock, I can't even begin to… I've never let myself really want them, though, you know? With you, I just thought maybe it wasn't in the cards, that maybe sex wasn't ever going to be your thing but now… now I know and all the things I've never truly let myself think about… I mean, I've certainly  _fantasized_ , sure, but never did I think in  _reality_  that-"

"You've fantasized about me?" God, it's so much sexier when said out loud and Sherlock bites his lip as his body reheats itself to new, unhealthy temperatures.

"Jesus, you have no idea," John practically growls, dragging Sherlock back in for another healthy snog like he simply can't help himself, his lips drawn to Sherlock's like a magnet. "Living just above you all these months, knowing your gorgeous mind and beautiful body were only a flight of stairs away… god it was  _torture_."

"Well if I had known my flatmate was having such naughty thoughts about me, I would have found my way upstairs a long time ago," Sherlock murmurs, the giddiness of being happy, of finding his feelings returned so utterly making him much bolder than usual.

"Well I wasn't  _aware_  it was naughty considering I thought you were my boyfriend for the last three months," John giggles, hands gripping Sherlock's lower back. "My boyfriend," he murmurs, eyes locking on Sherlock's lips, "who I thought wasn't interested in sex… God, the things I  _want_ , Sherlock, I-"

"Tell me," Sherlock whispers back, laying soft, encouraging kisses at the corners of John's mouth, "Tell me what you want. We can… we can take it slow."

Slow is not just for John's benefit. Sherlock may not be a virgin but it has been a while and a little guidance from his gorgeous lover would be helpful.

"Okay," John agrees, accepting the soft press of lips with a slight grab at Sherlock's waist.

"Tell me," Sherlock breathes again. "Please John, tell me what you want."

A shaky breath leaves the blond boy's mouth before he's able to speak again. "I… I want to… I want to take off your clothes."

A fine shiver races its way down Sherlock's back at those simple words, making his every limb quiver at the implication. "Yeah?" he all but moans against John's neck where he's buried his heated face.

"I want to undress you," John's voice has gone rough, though his words are stronger now, more sure, like he's gaining his footing back, confidence building as he admits all of the things he wants with Sherlock. "I want to peel every layer of clothing free from you and _see_  you. All of you. You feel so good under my hands, Sherlock. I want… I  _need_ to know what you feel like without any barriers between us."

" _Yes_ , John," Sherlock is trembling against his soon-to-be-lover, John's words doing nothing but spiking his arousal to new heights, making him want more than he's ever done before.

"You want that, too?" It's not a real question. If anything, it's a taunt. John knows exactly what he's doing, gaining back the upper hand and taking full advantage of it and Sherlock is fucking  _reveling_ in it.

"God yes," he breathes his reply, arms shaking as he lifts them up over his head in unspoken acquiescence. "Please.  _Please_ , John."

Gasping softly at the clear neediness in Sherlock's voice, John's fingers find the hem of his shirt and pull it carefully upward, tugging it over Sherlock's head and off his arms. Sherlock closes his eyes at the tender touch, feeling exquisitely ravished under John's attentions.

Which is why he's wholly unprepared for damp lips and heated breath to land softly against his breastbone, a tongue joining with the barest hint of pressure. Sherlock inhales sharply, unaware that his hand has found its way into John's blond fringe, feeling the boy's head move gently as he lays wet kisses along Sherlock's chest.

"Christ, you're so soft," John murmurs against his skin, dragging his lips along Sherlock's pectoral muscle. "You taste  _divine_."

"John, I –  _John_ ," is all Sherlock can manage, head snapping back and jaw dropping open as a gentle mouth closes around one of his nipples, tongue darting out to lave against the sensitive tip. "Ohhh my  _god_."

"I want to taste every inch of you, love," whispered words breathed across his chest feel like fire as they simmer into his pours and make every nerve in him sing high praises of John Watson's filthy mouth. He hums in agreement that  _yes_  John can taste him, John could lay him out and sample him like some human dessert and Sherlock would happily oblige him.

"Please," is all he manages to say out loud, "I want you to."

He can feel the covetous grin that spreads across John's lips as the blond boy nips at Sherlock's throat with tender, loving little bites, licking over each minor wound to soothe any sting that doesn't exist considering Sherlock's body is currently on fire. "You'd like that?" John's fingers trail their way down Sherlock's sternum, drawing along the slight dip between his pectorals before dropping lower, one fingertip circling his naval and caressing the fine hairs that sit in a disorderly line and disappear into the waistband of his trousers.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock hisses, burying his red face in the crook where John's shoulder meets his neck and attempting to breathe against the touch of John's hand against his sensitive skin. Clever fingers find their way to his flies and work them open, flicking the button open first before dragging the zipper down so agonizingly slow.

Slipping his hand inside and wrapping deft digits around Sherlock's aching cock, John whispers, "I want to taste this," against the curly-haired boy's lips, swallowing his responding gasp with a thorough kiss. Pulling long, languid strokes, John wraps his free hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, keeping him close as Sherlock moans softly against his lips. Fisting his hands in John's shirt, Sherlock bites down on his bottom lip, attempting to keep his desperate moans from escaping, the feel of John's warm hand against him so blissfully satisfying, he swears he could float away right now.

An attempt to express how he's feeling in words, to explain to John how intensely good this feels being so close and so intimate, to simply say  _yes_  this is  _everything_  he's been wanting, is completely and entirely lost as the boy currently stroking his cock lays one more soft kiss against his lips, has the audacity to  _smirk_ -

And then drops to his knees in one fell swoop, bringing Sherlock's trousers and pants along with him, pulling them down to pool at the boy's ankles. Settling shaking hands on broad shoulders, Sherlock fumbles his way out of the remainder of his clothing, heart clenching slightly at the sight of John assisting him, helping him step out of his boxers and kick them aside, flushed cock bobbing freely at the exact height of John's mouth. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep a groan from falling from his lips, which proves futile as the groan turns into a deep, internal growl vibrating his slender frame. John peeks up at him from where he sits on his knees, deep blue, all-too-innocent eyes boring in him with such intensity it makes his body shiver. "I've wanted to do this for such a long time," John breathes below him, holding eye-contact as he slips his mouth around the head of Sherlock's cock and sucks generously.

Sherlock's knees practically give out as a wave of pleasure crashes through him, goose flesh rippling out along his skin as he tosses his head back and lets out a single sob in utter worship of the boy currently on his knees in front of him. Without any conscience decision to do so, Sherlock is burying his hands deeply into John's somewhat shaggy hair and gripping a bit too tightly, his entire body shaking with the effort not to buck his hips into the heat surrounding him.

Though the urge to thrust fades quickly as John goes to work on him, dragging long pulls over his erection, swirling his tongue and lapping at the underside before going back down, bobbing forward and backward until he's worked Sherlock's entire length into his mouth. Sherlock's grip tightens on its own accord as he drops his head down to watch his cock disappear further and further into his lovers' mouth until the sensitive head hits the back of the blond boy's throat.

And then John swallows around him and Sherlock cannot contain the guttural cry that seems to tear itself from deep within his chest, bubbling up and over his lips, unstoppable in its intensity. "John!" he cries, panic clouding his words as he recognizes the telling tingling at the base of his spine, "Please, oh  _please_  John, I… I  _can't_ …I can't last and I… I want you… I want you  _inside_  me before I… I want us to… together." He's babbling nonsense, gasping through the pleasure coursing through him as he attempts to stave off orgasm while simultaneously trying to explain to John why he doesn't want to come yet, his brain too foggy to understand fully if he's succeeded or not. " _Please_ ," he gasps again before he finally realizes John has pulled off and the flurry of sensitivity in his belly has eased itself away from the edge.

"Oh god," John breathes from where he sits on his knees, hand still wrapped around Sherlock's cock, stroking it lightly and lovingly as he stares upward. "Are- are you sure? I… Christ I would love to see you under me like that, love, but just… I just need you to be sure before we-"

Cut off by long fingers wrapping around his biceps and hauling him to his feet, Sherlock silences John by kissing him breathless, sweeping his tongue into John's mouth to prove how very serious he is about this. "Of course I'm sure, of  _course_ John, please… John,  _please_."

Christ, he's never begged like this before. He's never  _wanted_  to beg like this before. And he doesn't know why he's begging now considering he has a very willing partner clinging to him just as desperately but for some reason this feels urgent. This feels  _important_. He wants it,  _god_ does he want it, he wants to be John's fully and completely and he doesn't know how else to communicate that to his partner, feeling absolutely no shame as another plea falls from his mouth, completely unnecessarily as his slender frame practically vibrates with need.

And John, brilliant,  _brilliant_ John, finally seems to come to from his daze of watching Sherlock tremble for him and begins to quickly and efficiently strip off his own clothing, small, breathless giggles escaping him as Sherlock attempts to help ineffectively, quivering hands absolutely no help at all and the curly-haired boy finds himself joining in with the laughter, grinning helplessly at his own ridiculousness.

"I've got it, love," John chuckles, pausing to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips, "but thank you for helping."

Cheeks heating a bit at the tenderness in John's voice, Sherlock watches raptly as a new inch of John's golden skin is revealed, rugby muscles accented gorgeously in the soft glow of the twinkling lights. John's body is utter perfection, all hard lines and fit edges. Sherlock would like to run his tongue along each crevice and find out how each one tastes. He bites down on his lip as he reaches a hand out to touch the perfect line running down John's stomach, fingers quavering at the first bump of a ripped muscle. A sharp inhale catches his attention before he can begin to count the pack of six, squared and columned just above John's waistline and he glances upward.

Catching Sherlock's hand in his own before it can travel further, the blond boy presses a kiss to his palm and murmurs, "Hold that thought," before dropping it and returning his fingers to unzipping his jeans and shimmying out of them quite quickly, before both of his hands return to Sherlock.

Eyes widening a bit at the sight of a very naked John Watson before him, saliva pools in Sherlock's mouth as the boy he's wanted for so many months now comes closer again, pulling Sherlock to him, the heat between their colliding bodies so exquisitely delightful, two moans fill the room in unison as lips collide again, relearning each other's mouths as though they hadn't just kissed only moments ago.

Hands wandering all over one another, fingers finding their way into curls and around necks and along torsos and down to arses, John's mouth never leaves Sherlock's as he walks him slowly backward toward the bed, even as the curly-haired boy's knees hit the mattress and he falls, John follows him down, descending upon him, mouth latching to the base of his throat as he scoots up the bed to sit against his pillows.

John, however, seems to have no time for comfort as his tongue traces circles along Sherlock's chest and neck, nipping and sucking and working him over, making soft little pleased noises at every new inch of Sherlock he tastes, the sounds of a happy lover, of a happy  _John_ zipping straight down Sherlock's slender frame to his cock, which has lost no interest in the proceedings, aching and begging for friction. He props himself up on his elbows, glancing down to watch that blond head move over him, catching glimpses of a rather sizable cock dangling just above his own, flushed dark red and glistening slightly with the first signs of precome sneaking out from the tip.

Running a quick drag of fingers through John's blond fringe and down his back lovingly, Sherlock circles around, hand trailing along John's flank to his stomach, counting each abdominal muscle as his fingers crawl along the boy's skin, biting his lip to keep from moaning as he follows the trail of fine hairs leading down that fit stomach to the blond curls that sit at John's groin. The tips of his fingers find hard skin and without preamble, Sherlock fits one hand around the base of John's cock, giving it a firm stroke.

Tearing his mouth free of Sherlock's body to gasp harshly, John curses under his breath, eyes fluttering closed, mouth falling open as he thrusts into Sherlock's hand, hips throwing themselves forward from where he's huddling over Sherlock on his hands and knees. "Christ," he bites out before his eyelids fly open to land on Sherlock's. "Sherlock – I….lube. We – oh fuck – we need lube and… and condoms and… please  _please_  tell me you have supplies – I… I have nothing, I didn't… I didn't know – "

"Hush," Sherlock whispers up to his lover, still gently pulling at his cock, reveling in the soft whimpers he's receiving in return for his efforts, "Top drawer of the night table. Left overs from long ago but I'm sure-"

However, John is no longer listening, suddenly surging forward and to the side, practically diving for the contents of the drawer and landing on top of Sherlock rather harshly, knocking the breath from him. "Ow! Jesus,  _eager_  much?"

"Yes," John barks in reply, making absolutely no apologies as he returns to his position on his knees between Sherlock's legs. "You have  _no_  idea."

"I think I have  _some_  idea," Sherlock teases, rocking up to give John a kiss, steading himself on his palms. John grins, returning the kiss as he rips open the condom packet he'd found.

"Lie down, you gorgeous thing," John whispers against his lips as he rolls the condom down his length before popping open the lube bottle.

Complying with gusto, Sherlock falls back against the pillows and spreads his legs, pulling his knees up and out, hands falling to John's thighs, rubbing his palms up and down the hard muscles.

Pausing his hasty movements of applying lube to his fingers, John runs his hungry gaze all of Sherlock's splayed-out body, licking his bottom lip in a way Sherlock has never seen him do.

"My god, you are gorgeous," the blond boy breathes, "How did I get this lucky to be here with you right now?"

Blushing under the attention, Sherlock continues his ministrations of John's thighs, unable to keep his hands off this beautiful boy who is perfect in every way and praising  _Sherlock_  of all things, which seems completely ridiculous and completely wonderful. "John," he whispers, eyes wide and round and pleading, "John, please."

"I'm going to make you feel so good, baby," John all but growls as he finishes applying the lube, settling one clean hand beside Sherlock's head while the other dances its fingers along the curly-haired boy's inner-thigh. "I'm going to make you moan."

And Sherlock believes him as some sort of sound creeps its way up from the back of his throat at the same speed John is trickling his fingers up his leg, and just as those slick digits reach the sensitive skin of his perineum, Sherlock practically sobs out a rather loud moan, hips jerking up toward his lover.

Lips are suddenly sealing his mouth closed as another groan rumbles from his chest and he pours it right into John's mouth as the boy above him drags a clever finger over his entrance.

"Oh god, you can't be that loud, love," John half-laughs, half-moans as he continues to circle his goal with the pad of his finger. "I wish you could, my god you are so sexy, I can't even explain it and I promise when we get back to Baker Street I am going to make you bloody  _scream_ , that's a promise, but tonight we've got to be careful."

"I don't care," Sherlock throws his head back as the tip of a finger dips into him shallowly, rubbing along the tender nerves of his opening. "I don't  _care_ , John, I swear I don't-"

"I do," John shushes him before sealing their lips together again and pressing his middle finger inside, swallowing down Sherlock's cry, "Oh god yes, I promise, I  _promise_  when we get home, you can be as loud as you like but tonight we've got to keep it down. It's bad enough we're doing this in your parent's house, we're no better than Greg and -"

" _Please_  do not mention my family right now," Sherlock barks out sharply before the sentence turns into a moan, the horrifying thought of his parents, or worse,  _Mycroft_ , at a time like this dissolving as pleasure ripples through him. "Oh Christ, another. Please, John, add another."

Slipping another finger in alongside the first, John's lips hover over his, preparing to cover another loud noise, but Sherlock manages to contain it this time, biting harshly at his lip. "I'm sorry," John whispers as he slides two fingers in and out smoothly, "I  _wish_  you could be loud, baby. Watching you cry out at my touch is the best thing I've ever seen in my life but please, just for tonight, we've got to be careful, alright? I'd be completely mortified if your – if  _anyone_ heard us and –"

"Alright, I – I get it, I'll be – oh god, John right  _there_  – I'll be quiet I promise, just please don't stop."

"Oh I won't be stopping, love," John grins, pressing his clever fingers further inside. "Not unless you ask me to."

"I won't be asking," Sherlock tries to bite back but his words come out a bit breathless.

"Christ, look at you," John drops his gaze down to where his fingers are disappearing and reappearing between Sherlock's legs. "That's right, baby, open up for me, there you go. God, I cannot wait to feel you come with your arse around my cock."

Keening harshly from behind tightly pressed lips, Sherlock's hips thrust upward as John's words and fingers compose a symphony over his entire body, playing him perfectly, every limb moving in time with John's ministrations, squirming and bucking and grabbing at anything to hold on to as pleasure explodes like fireworks all around him. "John, hurry," he whimpers, rolling his hips along John's fingers, "please, hurry, I – want you s-so badly." His entire frame shudders with the sheer need to be with John, almost franticly anxious as another wave of pleasure crashes through him. "Please."

Settling a steady hand against his sternum, stroking soothingly along his chest, John presses deeper, eyes locked on Sherlock's, brow pinched in concentration. About to ask what question John is searching for the answer to, the words he is about to speak suddenly detonate like fireworks going off inside of him, after-shock sparks trickling along beneath his skin as the quest John is on becomes clear.

"There we are," John croons above him, looking quite smug and equally pleased, dragging his fingers out, rotating them and pushing all the way back in to land another delicious stroke along Sherlock's prostate. "Perfect, love."

"Oh Jesus now, John, please, now," Sherlock rasps out, barely able to form a proper sentence through the intensity of this experience. "John. John. John, please, please, I… I need you, it's so good,  _John_ -"

He continues to whisper his pleas and beg John, even when fingers are pulled free from his body, even when John is pouring lube over a hand and running it over his own erection, even when that same hand runs over Sherlock's aching cock laying against his belly, he can't seem to shut himself up, he can't seem to find any contentment with anything that's going on because he needs John inside of him, he needs to be joined with this wonderful _wonderful_  boy, he needs it like he needs air and he can't stop himself until he feels the blunt head of John's cock breaching his entrance.

And that's when every desperate nerve in his body goes suddenly and blissfully quiet, letting a soft, settled, contented sigh in unison as John pushes in with a low, agonized groan. " _Fuck_ ," John whispers, eyes slamming closed as he fully seats himself inside of Sherlock.

Stilling his hips carefully, John lowers himself down, settling onto an elbow at Sherlock's side, gasping quick little gasps of air, like he just can't manage to breathe properly. He stays very still for a long moment and Sherlock's heart all but shatters in his chest as he watches his gorgeous lover attempt to control himself. It's not an altogether comfortable feeling, the cock in his arse, but Sherlock knows it's only about to get so much better and he's willing to wait for John to be ready. He's already been demanding enough this evening, he should have enough self control to be considerate in this quiet moment and he finds it not difficult at all to lay perfectly still and soak in every detail about this. He knows this will be a night he'll never forget.

Hands stroking along John's flanks tenderly, Sherlock watches every twitch of John's hips, every quiver of John's mouth, every little noise that escapes John's lips as he waits, cataloging every piece of data he possibly can, an intensely sentimental thing to do he knows but he can't possibly be arsed to care. He's having sex with  _John Watson_ right now and that is all that matters in the world. He can stand to be a little sentimental.

And a little sentiment promptly grows exponentially in the span of a single breath and his heart lurches harshly in his chest as blue eyes suddenly snap open and find his, raw and deep and strong, laying bare every emotion going on his John's blond head, finding his own thoughts mirrored in those gorgeous eyes.

"Alright?" John whispers tenderly, bringing a hand up to brush Sherlock's sweat-soaked curls away from his forehead and laying a soft kiss to his lips.

"Better than alright," Sherlock croaks back, emotion coloring his words tellingly but he can't care. In this moment, he cannot care how truly revealing he's being because this, this moment right here is far too perfect for him to be worrying about such trivial matters as hiding how he feels for John Watson. "Don't stop," he whispers, hands moving restlessly along John's back and up into his hair, pulling him down for Sherlock to take his bottom lip into his mouth and suck.

"Never," John whispers back as he begins to move, "I'll never stop, baby, not for as long as you'll let me." He thrusts slowly, rocking Sherlock steadily against the sheets, moving them together in a perfect rhythm, eyes never leaving Sherlock's, unable to tear their gaze away from one another. " _God_  you feel incredible," he murmurs, "You feel so good, love, so  _so_ good."

Tiny sounds sneak their way out of Sherlock's lips at their own accord with every push and pull of their bodies, and he locks his arms around John's neck, holding on for dear life, attempting to anchor himself back into the moment because John looking at him like this and talking to him like this and working his body like this is overwhelming him in the best way possible and he never ever wants it to end.

"Christ I could do this with you forever," John continues to talk, eyes widening down at his lover when Sherlock's mouth drops open further with every renewed thrust, "Does that feel good? Do you like that?"

Nodding, because that's all he can manage at the moment, Sherlock's responding yes is nothing but a whimper as he arches into John's touch, stuttering out a low cry when another of John's thrusts hits that exact spot inside of him, making his frame tingle with tiny sparks of pleasure.

And without warning, John is suddenly sitting up and back onto his knees, and Sherlock wraps his legs around John's back and holds on tight, arms still locked around John's neck, unable to let go, terrified that if he does he may float away and never return. John's arms are wrapped just as tightly around his back, one hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades, the other wrapped around his ribs, face buried at the base of Sherlock's neck, breathing harsh breathes against his skin.

They stay that way for a long moment, breathing each other in, steadying themselves against one another, Sherlock clinging like his life depends on it and John stroking his back as if to let him know it's alright, that he can hold on as hard as he needs to because John somehow understands. "I've wanted this with you for so long, Sherlock," John murmurs against collarbone, dropping a kiss to it. "I've always… I… I can't…"

His voice catches in his throat and Sherlock pulls back just enough to press his own trembling lips to John's. "Me too, John. Always.  _Always_."

The responding harsh intake of breath from the blond boy fuels Sherlock's inner heat and he grips a handful of hair as John's hands settle on his hips and begin to rock him in his lap, seated so deeply that his cock skids across Sherlock's prostate with every gentle movement, forcing them both to groan their pleasure in unison. Tossing his head back on a moan, Sherlock rolls his hips with short little snaps, squirming as pleasure shocks ricochet around his insides with every drag of the erection buried deep inside him.

"That's it, that's perfect, love," John encourages, matching Sherlock's speed thrust for thrust, head tipped back to watch his lover practically bounce on his cock. "God you are gorgeous like this, there you go."

Biting down harshly on a cry threatening to burst free from his throat, Sherlock is just about to start up the begging again, about to plead for John to touch his neglected cock, sitting hard and aching between their sweaty bodies, gaining the smallest of friction, not nearly enough, and the first please is just rolling around Sherlock's mouth when clever, clever John takes him in hand with a soft murmur of praise and a curse of delight as the cock in his hand bursts a long string of precome.

"Yes," Sherlock practically sobs, hands scrabbling for purchase along John's back, almost panic stricken at the rush of ecstasy pooling in his lower belly. "Ah- ah – I – John-"

"Christ, you are so close, come on," John encourages up to him, "I can feel it, oh Jesus,  _yes_  Sherlock, come for me."

A swell of something mixed between pleasure and love and affection and fire swirls harshly up inside him and Sherlock presses his mouth to John's temple to stifle the loud cry his body is begging him to make as he comes between them, cock jerking and pouring out long strands of semen, painting their bellies white and eliciting a serious shudder of satisfaction from Sherlock's slender frame. He's still shaking as John thrusts up into him once, twice, before he's finishing, trembling breaths ghosting over Sherlock's collarbone as he fills the condom still seated inside the curly-haired boy. Vaguely aware of a soft string of loving words and curses, Sherlock finds that it's him who is encouraging John through his orgasm, hand stroking through his hair and down his neck, whispering his gratitude for that leg-shaking orgasm John just delivered to him.

With a heavy sigh, John buries his face into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder and takes an unsteady inhale, barely loosening his grip on his lover, arms still wrapped tight enough that Sherlock can't move.

And Sherlock finds that he has no desire to move anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The soft glow creeping in through the slats of the shades hanging down over his bedroom window is not the yellow warmth of the sun rising. Blinking open and rubbing at his sleepy eyes, Sherlock yawns extravagantly, body still tingling happily from the activities he'd engaged in all night long, the memories already flooding back in and reminding him exactly who the contented weight is beside him in his bed. He rolls over, snuggling just a bit closer to the blond head buried deep in the pillow, one strong arm slung over Sherlock's chest, legs tangled in a messy twist beneath the covers. The room sits in a low, colorless light, mixing the pale lights hanging along the window frame and the bright white coming in through the shades.

"Well hello there," John's rough voice catches his attention and Sherlock turns back to his lover, finding a grin sneaking onto that perfectly round face, soft and sleepy but no less bright than the night before, drowsy eyes dancing with something like awe.

"Hi," Sherlock murmurs back, his voice a bit raspy from sleep, certain he's mirroring John's exact look. "How did you sleep?"

"Oh, splendidly," John practically growls and suddenly he's moving, reaching quick arms out and pulling Sherlock to his chest, nuzzling his nose against the curly-haired boy's temple and inhaling deeply, like he can't quite believe he's waking beside Sherlock Holmes. "And what about you, love? How did you sleep?"

Heat blooms in Sherlock's cheeks immediately at the use of love falling so effortlessly from the blond boy's mouth, that same boy that is currently holding him tight like he never intends on letting him go. Sherlock squirms closer. "Fine, thank you."

"Mm, that's good," John whispers happily, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. They lay silently together in the quiet of Sherlock's room, breathing each other in and enjoying their first morning of waking together, ignoring everything else going on inside the house. Sherlock has absolutely no idea what time it is but at the moment, he can't be arsed to care. He has John now. John currently snuggled close, all warm and sleep-soft and comfortable and Sherlock just isn't willing to give this up quite yet. The perfection of this moment is too solid to want to break it.

"I should probably sneak out, huh?" John whispers, making no effort to move from where they lay curled together.

"No, it's fine," Sherlock breathes back. "They all think we're shagging anyway."

Snorting a laugh, John pulls him impossibly closer. "True, but I'd prefer for your parents not to witness us exiting your bedroom, making the clear statement that we shagged in their house on Christmas Eve."

Christmas Eve.

Sherlock blinks, as those two words bounce around his brain before settling and allowing him to process them and-

Oh shit.

It's Christmas.

"John!" Sherlock exclaims excitedly, bolting upright and reaching for the string hanging down from the window, "it's  _Christmas_!"

"Yeah, I know," John laughs, following him up to a sitting position much slower, "get back here so I can give you a Christmas cuddle."

Ignoring the hands caressing his bare back, though not unaffected by the tender touch, Sherlock yanks on the string and opens the blinds, finding exactly what he was hoping for. "It's snowing," he cheers giddily, a whole new wave of happiness rolling through his body. It's snowing on Christmas morning. The same Christmas morning he'd first woken up with John Watson in his bed. Could life get any better?

"I see that, love," John chuckles, moving up to wrap his arms around Sherlock's middle, warm, soft skin pressing up against Sherlock's back as he hooks his chin over the curly-haired boy's shoulder to watch the snow fall outside. "It's quite beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock practically moans, melting into the body behind him with a happy little sigh, never having felt more satisfied in his life. He lets the moment drag out, blinking out at the snowfall as John peppers his shoulders with quiet kisses and soothes his hands over Sherlock's chest and stomach, caressing him gently. It takes every ounce of effort left in him to pull away, knowing his mother is in the kitchen by now, getting started on the baking they always did together for the big family dinner.

He ignores John's grumbled protests and grabby hands as he crawls out of the bed with a laugh. "I have to get up. Mummy will be slaving away in the kitchen by now."

And he truly has every intention of doing that, really, he does. He locates his discarded pants and tugs them on, spinning back toward the bed in search of his dressing gown he'd strewn somewhere two nights before.

But instead, his calculating brain suddenly shuts itself completely offline, all logical thoughts scattering away as he takes in the sight of John Watson sitting up in his bed, stomach muscles clenched where he sits propped up against the pillows to accent every line, his beautiful blond fringe mashed this way and that, the sheets pooling around his naked hips leaving barely anything to the imagination. He looks like a goddamn  _model_ and Sherlock makes a soft noise in his throat that can only be described as a growl.

And John has the audacity to  _grin_. "What?" he asks innocently, batting his eyelashes.

Tossing a half-hearted glare at his lover, Sherlock tears his gaze away in favor of locating his dressing gown. "Up you get," he mumbles, not actually wanting John to get up and ruin this perfect picture, "we've got things to do today."

"Fine, fine," John grumbles and Sherlock refuses to watch him get out of bed, certain if he does he'll be in great danger of just dragging him back under the covers and never emerging again. "But I need to shower."

"Why?" Sherlock frowns, "It's Christmas. We aren't going anywhere."

Huffing a laugh from behind him, John is suddenly breathing softly in his ear, "Because I don't need your entire family knowing that I fucked Holmes the younger good and proper last night. Fair?"

Breath catching harshly in his throat on a gasp, Sherlock stutters out a soft  _oh_ , unable to do much more, especially when a strong, familiar hand rests against his lower back. "I-… right. Of- of course."

Chuckling, John gives him a gentle smack on the arse. "Go on without me, yeah? I'll get myself ready and meet you downstairs in a bit."

"Oh I – y-yes, alright," Sherlock mumbles, hurrying out of the room and to the loo himself before he spins right back around and disappears back into his bed with his lover forever.

Safely behind a closed door, Sherlock rights himself and goes about showering and brushing his teeth, deciding that yes, John was definitely right, there is absolutely no reason for them to make it so obvious as to what happened between them the night before. He cleans himself quickly and redresses in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, tossing his dressing gown on over top before hurrying to the kitchen.

He finds his mother bent over the countertop, brows pinched as she reads through the recipes she's laid out before her. She glances up as he enters, eyes widening with immeasurable guilt. "Sherlock," she starts, hand outstretched as an offering of comfort, "Oh darling, I'm so  _sorry_  about last night, I didn't know-"

Sherlock cuts her off with a hug.

He wraps his arms around his mother's shoulders and kisses her cheek, a swell of affection bursting through him at the sight of his mother concerned that she'd done something terrible to him by voicing an assumption that has apparently been quite obvious to everyone except Sherlock Holmes.

"Honey?" his mother ventures, returning his hug tentatively at first before wrapping him up tightly in her arms like he's still just a small tyke running amuck in her house. "Everything okay?"

"Everything is perfect, Mummy," Sherlock whispers, holding tighter to Mrs. Holmes as his heart continues to turn over in his chest.

"I'm truly sorry, love," she continues anyway, "I thought you two were… well it was so obvious how you both felt about each other, I thought you were certainly together."

"You and everyone else," Sherlock laughs. "Thank you, Mummy. Thank you for everything."

The arms around him tighten. "You… you're welcome, Sherlock," his mother murmurs, her voice wobbling and Sherlock loves her fiercely. She's always been a weeper and right now she's crying over his happiness and it's the best day of Sherlock's entire life.

There is a soft shuffle in the doorway and the embrace Sherlock had been partaking in suddenly dissolves as his mother clears her throat and lets him go, but not to far as she pats his cheek, her eyes twinkling with something mischievous. "Good morning, John," she glances quickly over Sherlock's shoulder before dropping a wink to her youngest son and removing her hand from his face.

"Morning," John rejoins, though he sounds slightly unsure and Sherlock turns to find him shuffling his feet in the doorway. "Er- sorry, I can… I can just-"

"Oh, you two!" Mrs. Holmes chuckles that laugh that makes Sherlock smile in return. "Go on, then. I won't be needing you for at least another half an hour. Go keep yourselves busy."

Startled a bit by his mother's bluntness, Sherlock glances over at his now-boyfriend who shrugs in response and nods his way out into the hall. Grinning, Sherlock follows close behind, practically squealing in happy delight when John pulls him into his arms in the sitting room.

"So," John grins, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "I really was planning on kissing you now."

"Mm," Sherlock responds, rocking toward his lover, "Excellent plan."

"Ah," John leans back and away, still holding Sherlock close but tipping his head, and more importantly his lips, just out of reach, "I said I  _was_  planning on it. But I realize, since it's Christmas, I really  _can't_  just kiss you. I mean, unless…"

"Unless?" Sherlock prompts, feeling unnaturally displeased with this new game, John's lips just irritatingly out of reach.

"Well, unless there is a mistletoe, of course," John replies, attempting nonchalance as his lips twitch. "I mean I can't just be handing out kisses on Christmas Day like some slag."

Catching up to the game almost too late, Sherlock's pinched brow smoothes itself out and raises in understanding, lips tipping up into a grin as his glances pointedly above them. "Oh I see," he nods very seriously up to the green and red bundle hanging just above their heads. "Well. Good thing there is mistletoe just there, now isn't it?"

"Yes," John's posture finally relaxes as he rocks up on his toes and captures Sherlock's lips, "very good thing."

Giggling against soft and now very familiar lips, Sherlock wraps his arms around John's neck and holds him close, tasting his newly cleaned mouth and soft tongue, licking along the backs of his molars. John deserves to be thoroughly kissed on Christmas under the mistletoe and Sherlock is all too eager to make that happen. He settles in for a long snog, his heart pounding in his chest as John's hands run all over his back.

It's perfect.

He is absolutely certain he can't get any happier than he is right at this moment. He  _adores_ this boy in his arms kissing him under the mistletoe. He's certain life doesn't get any better than this.

Their kisses slow to languid, soft undulations of lips and tongues, clinging to each other, touching in the gentlest of ways, simply being together and being near each other.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," John whispers between presses of lips, barely pausing his kisses.

Grinning so hard, his cheeks start to ache, Sherlock pulls him closer. "Happy Christmas, John."

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING! Comments are much adored and appreciated! 
> 
> Also, here is a link to the song (and clip of the movie) John and Sherlock [dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fwuzeze0nw) to! =)
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in!


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